Fuck You, Kenneth Phelps
by DaddyDames
Summary: Here is a detailed account of Keneth Phelps being an intolerable bastard towards his son, Travis.


In his defense, someone had to die. So, before the judgment of the court of fools begins, let the full and detailed account of Kenneth Phelps begin.

Travis was always a follower, not that he had any other choice. When Travis was first being trained by his father, the young brunet hung on to his every word, always overwhelmingly excited to follow orders. While his wife always gave him disapproving looks, Kenneth was always aware that loyalty would be important to them both. As Travis blossomed into a curious child, Kenneth further ground his position as an ultimate power in Travis's life. His son would not see the light of day should he become delinquent in the eyes of God and he made sure Travis knew this. The more that Travis grew up, the more grief Kenneth felt. Any signs of rebellion led to a fierce screaming match, until the one night that Kenneth let his right fist deck his son across the face after a particularly bratty comment. Kenneth knew that was when he had lost respect for his son altogether.

Travis curled up behind his door, blocking his screaming dad from opening the wooden blockade. Too bad the door didn't block out his words. "GET YOUR NO-GOOD, BITCH-ASS, WASTE-OF-FUCKING-SPACE SELF OUT HERE RIGHT NOW" His lungs straining.

Travis grabbed at his hair, desperately wishing to disappear. The minutes seemed to drag as his dad's drunk slurs filtered through the door. His eye pulsed weakly, just like him. Eventually, his father kicked the door and walked away. Travis knew he was going to be punished when he left his room, so he grabbed his wallet and opened the window before awkwardly sliding down the tree conveniently placed beside his house. He shoved his hands into his shorts' pockets and sauntered off.

By the time Travis was done sauntering, he found himself at an Olive Garden. The Applebee's for people that don't hate themselves, he mumbled before opening the door. The warm air blew across his skin, making him shiver. He scanned the restaurant before his eyes landed on Philip. Travis wasn't entirely sure how close they were, but they both had a miserable time at church. If you didn't count the time where they had jerked each other off in a confession booth, then they were practically strangers. Shaking away the memories, Travis hopped into a seat in Philip's section. The blue-haired boy smiled at the table he was currently serving and excused himself. "Hey, loser! I was wondering if I could get some food from this almost fancy restaurant." Travis couldn't help himself.

"You just want breadsticks, don't you?" Philip said, exasperated.

"How did you know? That would be wonderful, thank you, my bitch."

Philip rolled his eyes and walked to the back. Travis grinned, making his eye twitch in pain. He could feel the side glances of the baby boomers around him, but he didn't care. Even if his dad heard about this from them, the punishment couldn't be that bad. He wasn't openly bending a guy over a table and fucking him. He wondered briefly if his father knew about his sexuality. He hoped desperately that his dad was aware. Maybe then his dad would leave him alone, let him live. A deep feeling of longing filled his chest. His eyes glazed over as memories flooded over his conscious. All his life an oppressing force clipped his words, reputation, and self-image until he became a robot, dead inside. His father said to jump, he asked how high. His father said to hand out flyers for his church, he asked how many. His father said to torment the freaks below him, he asked which ones. His father said to submit to the church, he laid down and took it. Travis had never felt in control of himself, let alone his emotions. When control became the one thing that became constant, the only thing Travis could let loose was his emotions. He didn't care what the freaks in his school did, but that was the only area in his life that he expressed anger. He couldn't give a single shit about who came to his church, but that was the only way he could talk to his peers.

Travis mindlessly chewed at a breadstick, trying not to cry. He wasn't allowed to cry in public. Even as the volume of the restaurant grew around them, Travis remained unaware. The only reason he awoke was that he bit his finger after finishing off a piece of bread. Travis shuddered, shaking his head, similarly to a dog. The blond glanced around, wondering when the service had reached full swing. Travis hastily collected the rest of the warm bread, leaving a few dollars tip. Right before he barged through the door, the door swung out, smacking Travis right in the middle of his face. Right, it was a pull door. Dizzily, Travis looked up to find the face-crusher. Two bright blue eyes stared back at him. Blood rushed up Travis's face, making him redden furiously. A memory of the bathroom flashed before his eyes. It was the gang of freaks. "Watch where you are going, fag," Travis grumbled, before quickly making an exit. Gathering what small amount of courage he could, Travis began his trek back home, finally ready to face the music.

Let's just say that Kenneth was not pleased with his son. Not only had the boy not followed his direct instructions to open the door, but his son had also then proceeded to leave, get food he didn't deserve, and waltz back into the house like he owned the place. He could feel the heat rising to his head as Travis crept around, trying to let his dad sleep. When he finally arose from the dark, Travis didn't realize it at first. Kenneth could hear the exact moment Travis spotted him if the gasp was anything to go by. The priest took a long sip of bourbon, emptying it, before smashing half of the glass on the table. Travis could feel his limbs begin to shake, hating the feeling of being weak. "Submit."

One word was all it took for Travis to land on his knees, feeling a piece of the glass slice into his skin. If the deranged grin his father shot him was anything to go by, Travis was in for a hell of a punishment. 'Now, Son, every slash that I make, I want you to tell me a sin you have committed."

Travis, shaking fiercely, nodded, his head bowed and body bent in a prayer position. Travis felt his shirt being moved up, exposing more and more of his back. Kenneth took a nicely sized piece of the bottle and settled down next to his quivering son. "Repent."

"I have defied my father." The first cut was light, but the nerves seized anyway.

"I have defied my god." The second went slightly deeper and a little longer.

"I have defied the rules, wasted money, and recklessly endangered our reputation." The cuts progressively got more ragged, made worse by Travis's convulsive shaking. It wasn't the sins that stopped the punishment, but the collapsing of his father. Thank God, he finally succumbed to alcohol. Travis desperately withered away from his kin, his back protesting loudly. After a few shaky minutes, the blond found enough balance to reach his bathroom. As delicately as possible, Travis removed his bloodied sweater and shorts. Filling the sink with cold water and soap, he submerged his top, hoping to remove the blood. Next, he gathered a box of gauze and adhesive, beginning the long process of wrapping his chest.

Travis woke with a piece of gauze glued to his face and a bad ringing in his left ear. Looking around, he gathered he must have fallen at some point after wrapping his torso. He took a look at his materials, noting to pick up some more medical supplies after school. School. He glanced at his phone. The time read 8. Fuuuuuuuuuuck. Travis drained the sink, promising to his sweater he would dry it later before sprinting to his room. His back cracked, reminding him of his injuries. Double fuck. He picked whatever shirt he laid his hands on and threw on some sweatpants, not going for the usual fabulous look he wore every day. He tugged on his shoes as fast as he could, considering his back was practically nonfunctional, and made his way to the school bus, just barely making it on time. He felt bad, considering he had to walk (he could not physically run), and even worse because the only space left available was by Larry and Sally Face. Triple fuck. He plopped down, making pain dance across his back.

The trip was awkward, to say the least. Sal and Larry were enjoying each other's company, but they would regularly toss worried glances towards their bully, obviously waiting for Travis to explode on them. Travis felt another piece of him die inside. God, he wanted to be friends with them. They accepted everyone so easily, even those they don't understand. They can forgive, unlike Travis. Their fucking group was the antithesis of Travis's existence, but everything he wanted to be. He knew that Sal said he would be his friend, but Sal shouldn't have to put up with him. Travis took in a rattling breath, his chest felt like it was collapsing. Please shut up, you are being a bitch baby. You did this to yourself. Shut up. The bus came to a jerky stop and let out a long sigh. Travis's head cleared and he robotically raised from his seat and started towards Nockfell High School.

By the time gym came around, Travis was exceedingly tired and exceptionally sore. He was 90% sure his back was bleeding again and he was 100% sure he did not have enough energy to focus on sports. He is a twink, goddamn it. Luckily, the only thing the class was doing today was a 15-minute jog. It was so close to almost fine when they started, but by the time sweat started to soak his bandages, he could barely take it. His back was aflame by the time the clock rang out. He dropped to the floor, lying face down. Apparently, that wasn't the brightest idea because a second later a leg caught his side, causing a heavyweight to press into his back. Travis stilled, gasping in pain. His body tried to move away from the force until eventually it was removed. Sal laughed as Larry tried to detangle himself from the school bully. It was harder when Travis started to seize randomly. Larry scrambled away, trying his best to keep out of the spasming bully's way. However, once Larry was removed, Travis lifted himself slightly, looking for the fool that tripped over him. The tension ran high as Travis made eye contact with Larry. "You fucking dick! You did that on purpose, didn't you?" Travis sneered at him accusingly.

Larry sighed and raised his eyebrows. "Do you think I would voluntarily touch trash?"

Travis didn't respond. He could only hear his father behind those words, and his father didn't allow snarky responses. Larry watched the golden-haired boy's expression close off, going blank. "Yes, sir." He replied, monotone.

Sal's eyes widened. Out of all the responses he expected from Travis, the submission was definitely not one of them. Travis also seemed to realize this, his face flush and his legs shaking. He awkwardly got to his feet, backing towards the door. He pushed open the door and ran out, but not before throwing out a good old, "fuck you, Johnson."

Travis made it to the baseball fields before he stopped running. Scanning the treeline and spotting no one, he stormed over to the treeline, digging around for something. Eventually, he grabbed an old oak box with a protective pentacle etched across it. He lovingly stroked the carving before sliding the lock open. The box shuddered but opened noiselessly. The first thing to appear was a picture of his mother. She had passed away a few years ago, in an instant, she was gone. Travis had come home from middle school and it was like she never existed. Travis wasn't allowed to ask questions, so in retaliation, he stole the photo and hid it along with a few of her things that his father had missed. If you continued to dig around the box, you would find her favorite pen and a single engraved earring. Travis hugged the photo to his chest before gently laying it next to him. That wasn't what he was here for. Underneath the photo laid a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, and a small bottle of whiskey. He unscrewed the devil's drink and threw back as much as he could stomach in one go. Gagging, Travis swallowed heavily, his throat burning pleasantly.

As the alcohol worked through his blood system, the ache in his back dulled. He faintly registered lighting up, but his body immediately relaxed as the nicotine filtered into his lungs. He held his breath for a few beats, savoring the feeling before watching the smoke curl up into the sky. He tried the chastise himself for these unforgivable actions, but it is hard to give a fuck without is authoritarian father around. No one was here to observe his nasty little habit anyway. Travis let his head roll towards the blue sky, enjoying the pretty hue. He felt his eyes flutter, unable to force himself to get up. He laid down, his back only lightly protesting, and closed his eyes.

He woke up not being able to breathe. His eyes popped open to find the reddish-purple face of his enraged father staring him down. It took a moment before the most important problem of the situation slapped him in the face and tightened its grip on Travis's throat. "Not only are you late to your youth group, but you are also smoking, drinking, and in possession of your whore of a mother's photo. You don't deserve the blood running through your veins, you utter piece of human garbage. You're going to wish you had never existed after this punishment."

Fear iced over his veins as he felt his brain numb. He felt like there was a distance between him and the blond man that his father was pulled along by the hair. His father continued to fire insults at Travis, but everything was so hard to register. He certainly didn't feel real. By the time the Phelps returned home, Travis felt mentally back within his realm. His father turned towards his failure of a son and grinned. "Kneel."

Immediately, Travis dropped to the ground, his hands behind his head and his head bowed down. Mr. Phelps grinned demonically, kicking Travis's knees further apart. Obedient as ever, Travis lifted his arms as Kenneth pulled off his shirt. Travis returned to his original position while his bandages were torn away harshly. His son hissed from the rough treatment, but that was minuscule compared to what was to come. Kenneth position himself in front of his son, flicking open the same lighter Travis had used. Pulling out one of Travis's cigarettes, he lit up and held it up to inspect. Once he was sure that it was burning sufficiently, he turned his razor-sharp gaze to the trembling boy. Kenneth roughly took Travis's wrist and shoved the end of the cigarette into Travis's shoulder. Travis held back a withering screech as the smell of burning flesh danced through the room. Mr. Phelps, however, was nowhere near done. Pulling close the wrist still clutched in his hand, he drove the heat back into Travis's unscarred skin. Travis felt tears well in his eyes as the cigarette burned further into his skin. Mr. Phelps lifted his leg and shoved Travis down into a lying position. With the smoke still curling from his hand, Mr. Phelps forced open Travis's eye. Instantly, Travis connected what his father was going to do, making him scream and thrash, trying to get his father to stop. If anything, this only made Mr. Phelps drive the cigarette into his eye even harder.

How annoying, thought Kenneth, as he shoved a sock into Travis's mouth to quiet his screaming. The boy twitched madly underneath him, his eye bubbling with blood and ash. "You know you have to get that removed, right?"

Travis wasn't exactly responsive right now anyway. Mr. Phelps felt it was a good time to finish his 'lesson'. He grabbed Travis's whiskey and poured it onto the cigarette still sticking out of Travis's eye. Kenneth kindly grabbed the object and finally pulled it out of his retina, letting the alcohol fill in the broken lens. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he held down his son's shoulders to control the violent tremors. So tiring. After Travis quieted down, Mr. Phelps decided to go to the ministry. It wasn't like he would be able to move much anyway.

As the door closed, Travis shakily pulled out his phone. The light made him bite his tongue so hard it bled. There were only two numbers in his phone. His father and Sal's. He punched in Sal, trembling. Surely, the blue boy would help him. His chest felt tight as the phone rang, each second feeling more nervous than the last. Finally, Sal picked up. "Travis? Hello?"

Travis could have cried. "S-Sal! Fuc-fuck, I need your-your help." He rasped out.

"Sure man, where are you?"

"My house. Hur-hurry, pl-please."

Sal hung up, but Travis didn't care. As long as someone came to help him. The darkness of the house soothed his head if only a little. The clock in the kitchen seemed to mock him. It felt like he laid on the ground for hours before he heard muffled voices and a knock on the door. The knob jiggled, but the door was locked. Travis clenched his teeth around the sock, voluntarily this time, as he army crawled to the front door. After the third painful attempt of stretching his shoulder, the door clicked open. The knob jiggled again, this time opening the door.

Sal was glad that he was the one blocking Travis from Larry because the poor boy looked disturbing. He was pale, trembling, with a bleeding, fucked up looking eye. "Travis, what the fuck happened to you?"

Travis immediately retreated, his shaking even more pronounced. His hands covered his damaged eye, cowering before this short, masked, blue-pig-tailed teenager. Even with half of his face hidden, Travis looked terrified. "Hey, Trav, do you have a blindfold? It is best that we keep your eye protected."

Travis nodded slowly, still afraid. He tried to lift himself to his feet, but he was trembling too much to balance. Sal lunged forward, catching Travis before he toppled over again, but not without Travis flinching back violently. "Just show me where it is. It is okay to lean on me, Trav."

Slowly but surely, Travis and Sal made their way to Travis's room. Travis pointed to the closet, near the bottom right corner. After sifting through some mildly dubious objects, Sal proudly held up a blindfold. Travis smiled dimly before turning to let Sal place the blindfold on his face, hissing quietly as pressure was applied to his wounded eye. His shoulder, back, and wrist pounded; his head began to feel light, too light. Sal couldn't say he was surprised when Travis finally passed out, but it would have been better if Larry would have caught him. It took the loud shouts of Larry's name to get him in Travis's room and one pleading look to get Travis over Larry's shoulder. The pair, now a trio, trudged back to Addison Apartments.


End file.
